Naked
by Mistress Scribbles
Summary: Several times that Sherlock & John saw one another naked, & didn't particularly want to do anything about it. S & J friendship; S, J & Lestrade friendship; brief J/Sarah & S/OC. Sexual situations, some violence & blood.
1. Chapter 1

Naked

-x-

One

-x-

The latch on the bathroom door wasn't very good. John had known that from the start.

'The latch on the bathroom door isn't very good,' Sherlock had called up to him the night he'd moved in, 'but I usually sing when I'm on the toilet anyway, I can't go if I think someone's listening.'

'Won't come in if I hear you singing,' John had called back, unpacking his toothbrush. 'Gotcha.'

'Or you could just knock,' Sherlock had shouted back.

'They don't cost much,' John had replied, noting that there was no lock whatsoever on his bedroom door. 'I'll get a new one from B&Q tomorrow.' _and another one for my room_, he added, internally.

'Or you could just knock,' Sherlock had repeated.

He didn't get round to going to B&Q the next day. Or the next, or the next, or ever, in fact. It wasn't exactly difficult remembering to knock if the bathroom door was shut. And anyway, Sherlock had a rather nice singing voice.

-x-

It certainly wasn't difficult to remember to knock, but Sherlock did rather have a knack for forgetting the simple things, and knocking was, when he was distracted by something else, one of those things.

The first time, it really did just seem like an accident. John was just getting out of the shower one morning when Sherlock burst in to the bathroom, muttering to himself, and pulled open the medicine cabinet. He didn't even look up – not even when John almost slipped over in surprise and wrenched the flimsy shower curtain off two of its rungs.

'Sherlock, what are you doing?'

'Paracetamol,' Sherlock barked. 'Where is it?'

Drawer under the kitchen sink,' John replied, trying to cover his modesty with the shower curtain, before noting that the translucent plastic sheet still revealed his genitals, only squashed grotesquely against it and coloured a particularly vile shade of green.

'How much?'

'It's a new pack, there's plenty. You got a headache?'

'Not a headache, John. The case.' Sherlock finally looked across at John, meeting his eyes straight away, as if there was nothing in the slightest bit abnormal about John's see-through shower curtain ensemble. 'He put paracetamol in her coffee. A full pack – what is that – 12? 16? I need 40.'

'You are not taking 40 paracetamol, Sherlock. That'll only cure a headache in the sense that dead people don't get headaches.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'Yes, I was aware of that, John. Ha!' He retrieved an old bottle of paracetamol tablets from the back of the medicine cupboard. About 30 pills rattled around in it. 'That'll make up the numbers.'

And with that, he turned on his heels and left the bathroom.

'Oh no you don't,' cried John, throwing a towel around himself and wondering if he'd started saying 'oh no you don't' often enough for it to have become a catchphrase of sorts, and running downstairs damply to wrestle a cup of coffee with dozens of paracetamol tablets ground into it from a madman who insisted he wasn't going to drink it all, he only wanted to have a sip to find out what it tasted like.

-x-

Sherlock walked in on John in the shower twice during the following month. They weren't even emergencies. Once it was to ask him if there were any more used tin cans lying around besides the ones he could find in the recycling bin (there weren't) and once to ask if a mole on the nape of his neck 'looked suspicious' (it didn't). Both times, Sherlock appeared not to take any notice of John's state of undress, but still, John began to wonder if his flatmate was doing it on purpose. After the third time, John wrote a note to himself as a reminder to go to B&Q and get those new locks. Only, half way through John's shift at the clinic that day, Sherlock texted him to let him know he was on another case – a big one – and could John meet him straight after work at Earl's Court tube station and he'd better bring his gun and Wellington boots and a coffee for Sherlock because he was parched, so John didn't get time to go to the hardware shop after all. They finally got back to the flat around 48 hours later – John smelling pretty bad but Sherlock, who had crawled through 20 metres of sewer with an honest to God crocodile snapping at his heels, smelling far, far worse. John found something edible to sling in the microwave and ordered his friend to take a shower. Sherlock only had strength, it seemed, to argue briefly before trudging upstairs. John shook his head to himself as he heard the bath being run instead of the overhead shower.

'You'll be sitting in a bath of your own filth instead of sending it straight down the drain,' he muttered quietly, knowing full bloody well that, even if Sherlock could hear him, he wouldn't listen. 'But, no. You can never follow a piece of advice to the letter, can you?' He switched the kettle on. 'Always got to rebel over something, no matter how tiny. You great, lanky, overgrown toddler.'

He stood and watched the kettle and the microwave as the taps in the bathroom upstairs fell silent.

'I'm going to microwave some of that creamed spinach to go with the Stroganoff,' he called up. 'Did you want some, or are you going to finish off the grapes?'

No answer.

'No excuses,' added John, 'you've been living off coffee and sugar for the last three days. You are eating one of your supposed "five a day" tonight. No flatmate of mine is getting scurvy.' He paused. 'Again.'

There was still no answer. The kettle came to a rolling boil, and switched itself off.

'Cuppa?' called John.

Again, no answer from upstairs. John stood at the bottom of the stairs and frowned. He didn't need to worry about Sherlock having fallen asleep up there – there were plenty of splashing noises coming from the tub… probably more splashing than was necessary, in fact.

'Sherlock?'

There was an odd grunt from upstairs – a muffled noise of concerted effort, followed by a waterlogged gasp. The first noise didn't sound like Sherlock. The second undoubtedly did.

'Sherlock!'

John broke into a sprint up the stairs and shoulder barged the bathroom door rather too hard – Sherlock hadn't even bothered trying to lock it.

Sherlock was in the bath… well – Sherlock was _mostly _in the bath. His arms and legs flailed wetly, uselessly, against the balaclava clad man that had climbed into the bathroom through the window and was now holding the detective's head under the bath water. John reached out for the nearest heavy object to hand, and smashed the intruder over the head with it. The man in the balaclava slumped forwards, dazed, and Sherlock was able to struggle out from under his weakened grip. John grabbed the stranger's handgun from its holster and turned it on him levelly as Sherlock clung to the edge of the tub, spluttering up bathwater.

'Who are you?' John demanded. 'Who sent you?'

'He's with the Paynton Gang,' Sherlock told him with a cough. 'Look at the belt.'

'But they were arrested months ago,' replied John.

'The ringleaders were. Many of the foot soldiers still operate. I suspect that tonight's little visit was because of the fact I'm due to bring evidence against the gang's leaders in three days time.' Sherlock glanced across at the intruder.

'You testify against them, and you're dead.' The stranger was already backing himself towards the bathroom window.

'You come back here, and _you're_ dead,' John told the man. 'You won't get chance to explain yourself again.'

The man made no further attempt to engage with either of them – his message delivered, he slithered back out of the bathroom window and began to swiftly clamber down to the yard below.

Only with the intruder gone did John dare let his attention slide to the state of the room about him. The horrible green shower curtain was completely ruined, now – Sherlock had pulled it half off its rail as the struggle had begun. Sherlock was still hanging on to the lip of the bath, coughing up water, his wet hair plastered over his face. John was still too pumped with adrenaline to pay too much attention to the fact that Sherlock was naked. All he really noted was that, devoid of clothes, Sherlock looked even skinnier. He looked like a cat that had been partially shaved and then flung into a river. There was one thing that did particularly catch his attention, though. He stooped to pick up the blunt object that he had hit the intruder with, and sighed, disappointedly.

'An ashtray?'

'I already smelled appalling. I thought I could safely sneak a quick ciggie without you detecting it.'

'But you've been doing so well! These things will kill you.'

'Actually, they probably just saved my life. Had I not been resting a glass ashtray on the bath, there would have been nothing between you and he heavy enough to stop him drowning me in time.'

'Cigarettes did not just save your life, Sherlock. I did. Again. And I didn't go to all that trouble to see you dying of lung cancer in a few years' time.' He picked up the packet of cigarettes next to the bath and put them in the ashtray.

'You're not throwing them out…'

'Yes, I am. Because you told me to do exactly that if I caught you smoking, only two weeks ago.'

'Damn,' muttered Sherlock, under his breath.

Downstairs, the microwave pinged.

'I'm going to heat up that creamed spinach with the…'

'Yes, Sherlock snapped, 'I heard you the first time.'

-x-

John didn't just happen to see Sherlock naked less than a week later – it was John who stripped him, only Sherlock was in so much trouble again that John really didn't think about the intimacy issues at the time.

They were on another case, despite Sherlock steadily looking sicker and sicker over the previous 48 hours. John had watched, and worried, and voiced concern that Sherlock had brushed off. When the call came in from Lestrade, John hoped that the promise of a new case would revive Sherlock. It didn't. Sherlock teetered around the crime scene like a tipsy ghost.

'You're not serious,' said Lestrade after a few minutes of watching him.

'Hmm?' was Sherlock's only reply.

'You look like death… not even warmed up. Death, partially reheated then left in the sun to fester.'

'He's right,' John added, glad of a second voice to say what he'd been saying for the last two days, as well as rather embarrassed at being the doctor who'd allowed his friend to try to work in such a state. 'Maybe you should rest up.'

'I've been "resting up" all week!' Sherlock shook his head. 'Really. I'm fine. Never felt better.'

Lestrade nodded to himself, then got out his mobile. Sherlock turned to him suspiciously.

'What are you doing?'

'Getting you an ambulance.'

'But I just said…'

'I know what you just said!' Lestrade turned to John, as he often did when appealing for some sort of sanity. 'This is the third time Sherlock's announced to me that he's "fine, never better". The first time, he'd just gone over the bonnet of a car.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes, despairingly, turning back to the crime scene. 'It was only a Nissan Micra.'

'The second time, there was half a harpoon sticking out of his thigh.'

'Are you still going on aboud thad liddle thig?' muttered Sherlock, his back still to them, his voice growing suddenly thick. He paused for a second, then added 'oh, fug'.

'Sherlock?' John took Sherlock's shoulder and pulled him round. Sherlock looked like he'd just French kissed a particularly enthusiastic vampire. Blood gushed over his mouth, down his chin and was already spattering the front of his crisp white shirt, as well as both of his hands and the cuffs of his sleeves where he was automatically trying to catch it. This was not just a nosebleed. This looked like Sherlock's nose had studied the Saw movies, decided they could do with more blood and was trying to create a new gory scene all by itself. This was The Shining, but with nostrils instead of lift doors.

'Jesus.'

'Id's jus a dosebleed.' Sherlock looked up, sharply. 'And no I ab _nod _usig agaid, Lestrade, I know you're dyig to suggest thad's whad's brought this od.'

'Certainly not,' replied Lestrade. 'I'd expect you to be much perkier than this if you were back on the drugs.'

John reached out to Sherlock and pulled his friend down onto a chair.

'Sit,' he ordered, taking Sherlock's fingers and placing them onto his nose. 'Pinch.' Sherlock pulled away, irritably, but it was too late – John had already noted the heat radiating from his friend's head. 'Christ, you're burning up. I gave you Ibuprofen only an hour ago!'

'I'b all right.'

'No you are not all right! This is not a normal temperature for a human to be.' John paused, regarding Sherlock. _Fever and nosebleed. Fever and nosebleed… oh, no._ 'The sewer water,' he said. 'Sherlock, you swore blind when you were down in that sewer last week, you didn't swallow any of it.'

'I got a diny bit in my bouth,' replied Sherlock, struggling to make his voice sound relatively normal. 'I didn't say anything because I knew you'd bake a fuss.'

'Too bloody right, I'm "baking a fuss". You've only gone and given yourself Typhoid Fever!'

Lestrade's eyebrows shot up. 'Typhoid Fever? Bloody Hell, Sherlock, what are you going to contract next – the Black Death? I'm calling you an ambulance.'

'No!' Sherlock weakly slapped the phone from Lestrade's hands. It skittered lightly to the floor a couple of feet away from Lestrade, causing the DI the huge inconvenience of having to stoop to pick it up again, thus buying Sherlock – oooh, about three seconds?

'You're going to a hospital, Sherlock,' John insisted. 'Typhoid Fever is a "serious situation" situation, you know. You could die.'

'One could die getting out of bed in the morning!'

'Well, they certainly could if they were sick with Typhoid Fever.'

'So, what? Instead I should lie on a trolley in a corridor like a piece of rubbish, waiting to see if some overworked, overtired foetus of a junior doctor will cut my foot off by mistake before or after I get infected with SARS?'

'You need proper medical care!'

'I've _got_ proper medical care!' Oh, and here came the big, sad eyes. 'You, John. I don't trust those idiots. You're my Doctor. I trust you. I'm much better off at home, with you.'

John closed his eyes, trying to fight the flattery. But he knew that, after that came the really big guns.

'Please, John.' Sherlock added.

John sighed. 'God, I must be mad.'

'Thank you,' replied Sherlock. His relief sounded genuine.

'But, you're going straight home, this instant, where you'll be spending the next three weeks at least lying prostrate on a series of different pieces of soft furniture.'

Lestrade nodded in agreement. 'We'll have to work this case without your help this time. I'm sure we'll manage, for once.'

Sherlock glared at them both. 'You can't show me a case like this and then not allow me to work it out, it isn't fair. Besides which, I can't possibly go three whole weeks with nothing at all to occupy me. I'll go completely mad.'

'You already _are _completely mad,' Lestrade began to argue. 'You're Mister March in Madman Monthly Magazine…' He caught John's eye, and trailed off. They both knew bloody well what sort of Hell on Earth Sherlock being bored for three weeks solid would be. Lestrade brandished his mobile again. 'Right. Fine. I'll assign you one of my lot – someone to do your legwork, go to the scenes, record what they see and hear there.' He thought for a moment. 'Hopkins. You can bear Hopkins, can't you?'

Sherlock nodded. 'Bright lad. Not as likely to miss the obvious as the rest of the Charlatans you have under you.'

'Then it's settled.' Lestrade started to dial. 'You won't be off sick, you'll just be working from home, OK?'

'I can live with that.'

'Hopkins,' said Lestrade down the phone, 'how do you fancy assisting our friend Mr Holmes on a case?'

Lestrade might as well have asked a 6 year old kid if he wanted to go to Disneyland. John could hear the excited 'Oh Sir, really?' on the other end of the line from where he was standing. He touched Sherlock lightly on the shoulder. 'I'll go and flag us down a cab. I'll be back up for you once I've got one.'

'Don't be ridiculous, John.' Sherlock removed his fingers from his nose. He still looked like an extra from a horror movie, but at least the nosebleed had stopped. 'I can walk to a taxi by myself. I might have Typhoid Fever, but that doesn't make me a swooning Victorian Lady.'

And, as if to prove his point, Sherlock got up, took four steps forwards and promptly fainted. Lestrade just about managed to catch him, dropping his phone, again, in the process.

He looked up at John. 'What should I do first? Fetch the smelling salts or loosen his corset?'

-x-

Lestrade drove back with them, helping John to carry a now semi conscious Sherlock up the stairs as Mrs Hudson clucked and fretted around them. By the time he'd deposited Sherlock on the sofa and politely seen Lestrade and Mrs Hudson to the door, promising them he'd be in touch with any future developments, the man had an alarmingly high temperature and had started muttering bits of Spike Milligan to himself.

'The Ning Nang Nong, the cows go bong the monkeys all say boo,' declared Sherlock, importantly.

'It takes a special kind of genius to give himself Typhoid Fever in London, in the 21st Century, you know,' John told him, gently, wetting a cloth. 'The kind that's actually a colossal idiot, to be precise.'

'Nang Nong Ning, the trees go ping and the teapots jibberjabberjoo.' Sherlock nodded to himself. Clearly, he was making an immense amount of sense as far as he was concerned.

John tried putting the cool, damp cloth on the nape of Sherlock's neck as the great detective informed him that on the Nong Ning Nang all the mice went clang, and one just couldn't catch them when they do. Then he put a second wet cloth on the insides of Sherlock's wrists as he loudly asked Eccles what time it was, and "Eccles" replied that he had the time written down on a piece of paper. There was a rousing chorus of Ying Tong Iddle I Po as John wrestled Sherlock out of his clothes. He really didn't fancy his chances of hauling Sherlock up another flight of stairs and then giving him a cool bath as he slipped between delirium and unconsciousness, so instead he set about giving his friend what would end up being the first of many sponge baths over the three weeks of his illness.

'Thank you, darling,' breathed Sherlock, watching the ceiling as the cool water eased his fever, 'please, have another picture of Queen Victoria.'

'This is weird,' muttered John. 'You're weird.' And the weird thing was, it didn't feel weird, no matter how much he kept telling himself that it should.


	2. Chapter 2

Naked

-x-

Two

-x-

What should have been the last straw – what would have been the last straw for anybody normal, John told himself later – the absolute nadir of Sherlock's respect for the personal boundaries of others - came a few months afterwards.

Things had been going well with Sarah - _very_ well with Sarah. She liked John, a lot. Hell, she even got on with Sherlock, which was pretty bloody amazing. She and John had been having sex for a while by that point. They were even beginning to skirt around the L Word, and it had been a long time since John had dared consider using that again. She gave him a buzz and a feeling of confidence that was different to the thrill and confidence that being Sherlock Holmes' best friend and fellow adventurer brought him – not any greater, or any less, just different. Different in a good way. In a really very good way. Which was why – one of the reasons why – one of the _many _reasons why what he really, really didn't want while he was halfway through a particularly lovely session of full sex with her was for Sherlock to burst in on them and demand that John sniff the Petri dish he was carrying.

Unfortunately, that is precisely what, on this occasion, happened.

'What does this smell like to you?' asked Sherlock, shoving the dish under John's surprised nose.

'Sherlock' hissed John, frozen in his position as he wrestled internally over which the less horrifying option would be - to pull out or to stay exactly as he was. 'Not the best time.'

'But this is important, John.'

'So's this. Her. You did realise I have company, surely…?'

Not one for being spoken about as though she wasn't in the room with them, Sarah gave Sherlock a cheerful 'Evening,' from beneath John.

Sherlock nodded, perfunctorily. 'Hullo, Sarah. Keeping well?'

Sarah gave him a little nod. There was a pause. Sherlock still didn't move. 'You?'

Sherlock sighed, and sat down on the bed, next to the unfortunately coupled pair. 'Still got this bloody head cold. Can't smell a wretched thing. Very frustrating.'

'Yes,' muttered John. 'Well, speaking of frustration…'

'Does this smell like almonds?' interrupted Sherlock pushing the Petri dish into their faces once more.

John sighed. 'Sherlock, would you please just…'

'No,' replied Sarah. 'No, it smells more like… like vinegar, I suppose.'

'Vinegar?' repeated Sherlock, suddenly enraged. He got up from the bed. '_Vinegar_? Bollocks. Bollocks!' He clawed at his hair with his free hand in utter impotent fury for a moment, then collected himself, just as abruptly. 'Oh well, back to the drawing board. I'll leave you two to your… fornications.' He waved his hands at them in a vague gesture of dismissal and distaste. 'Don't touch the test tubes on the coffee table when you emerge.'

John's bedroom door slammed shut again, and Sherlock was gone. John stared into the middle distance for a moment, pole-axed, blinked and shook his head.

'I am so, _so_ sorry. This flat is a bloody Loony Bin.'

Sarah was already giggling; the spasms of her belly tickling against his. 'Hate to break it to you, but I sort of worked that out on our first date.'

'I mean,' continued John, 'that did actually happen, didn't it? I didn't imagine that. He actually came in, sat down on my bed and tried to have a conversation with us while I was… you know. In you.'

Sarah's giggle fit grew harder. '"Fornications"! That was the best bit.' She wiped a tear of mirth from her eye. 'That's better than my ex's 4 year old who used to try to get into bed with us during sex because she said her Barbie doll was afraid of the dark.'

John shook his head again. 'I'm going to bloody kill him.'

'You wouldn't dare.' Sarah stopped giggling, and lay back with a mocking smile. 'We'd all be so bored if he were dead.'

'Good point,' John admitted. 'Fine, then we'll just have to get our own back another way.' He thought for a second. 'Next time he's in the bathroom and he starts singing, join in.'

'What? Why?'

'He'll know we're listening. He hates that. I once accidentally joined in with the harmony to "A British Tar" and he was in a filthy mood over it for the rest of the day. I don't think he's physically capable of going if he knows somebody can hear him.'

'Toilet humour,' concluded Sarah.

'Toilet vengeance,' asserted John.

Sarah nodded, then got up and started looking for her clothes.

'Where are you going?' John asked.

'Home.'

'Oh,' sighed John. He rubbed his face. 'Sorry. Sorry – I've been living like this for so long now, I keep forgetting this isn't how normal adults carry on.'

'Oh, I'm coming back,' Sarah replied. 'I'm only going to collect my Casio Keyboard. Why just join in with the bathroom singing when I can accompany him?'

John barked out a brief laugh, then sat back, beaming. 'Sarah, I think I might love you a little bit.'

Sarah shot him an impish grin. 'I think I might love you a little bit, too.'

-x-

Sarah continued to be the only person John brought back to his room. And since she was so understanding of the situation with Sherlock – and, since Sherlock never barged into John's room unannounced again after his bathroom rendition of Fauré's 'Libera Me, Domine' received an improvised keyboard accompaniment – John continued to push getting that lock to his bedroom back down his list of priorities. Sherlock never brought anyone back to his room, that John knew of. Which was why, when the sounds of a scuffle came from Sherlock's bedroom one night, John assumed that it was another incident like the attempted drowning in the bathtub, and charged straight into Sherlock's room, with a fire poker held aloft.

Sherlock, side on in his bed on all fours and absolutely stark bollock naked, snapped his head up and across at his friend, irritably. John found himself frozen to the spot, mortified. Underneath Sherlock, at 180 degrees to the line of his body and similarly naked, was a nicely built woman in her mid 40s. At John's sudden entrance, Sherlock had definitely, unmistakably raised his head up from the woman's pudenda. The insides of her thighs were slick with spit and… other bodily fluids. As was Sherlock's chin. As for what the woman was doing with her mouth… ah. Yes. That was his best friend's penis, all right.

Sherlock gave John a pointed look that very clearly said 'do you mind, John, I'm rather busy indulging in oral sex with this individual at present. If you could discreetly leave the room and wait elsewhere until I'm finished, that would be far more helpful than what you're doing right now.'

John flushed and did as he had been wordlessly asked. He went into the kitchen. He picked up a book. He put it down again. He did the same with a magazine. And then, for want of anything else to do with his hands, he put some toast on.

Sherlock was out of his bedroom just as John was buttering the second round of toast. He tied his dressing gown tightly around him – as if there was any point in retaining an air of modesty after what John had just witnessed – and hurried to the fridge.

John continued to look down at his piece of toast. 'She seems…' he struggled to find an adjective. '…nice.'

'Really?' Sherlock's voice practically dripped with disagreement and distaste as he unscrewed the cap of a bottle of Diet Coke from the fridge. He walked over to the sink, chugging a mouthful, then swilled and spat. 'Comes across as perfectly ghastly to me.'

John slid a sideways look at his friend. 'Well, you're the one who's sleeping with her…'

Sherlock's bedroom door opened again, and out slid the woman, wrapped in a bath towel – one of John's bath towels, to be precise – one that John had been looking for for a good three weeks. She stared at John, a little put-out.

It was as if somebody had flipped a switch in Sherlock. He glided over to meet her, his facial and physical expressions absolute pictures of affection and lust. He looked like some kid in the honeymoon period of his first great love affair.

'Hiya, babe.'

The woman's expression softened as Sherlock wrapped his arms around her and pulled himself behind her so that he was hugging her back against his chest.

'This is my housemate, John,' Sherlock explained. 'John, this is Debbie.'

'John,' grinned Debbie, revelling in John's embarrassment as Sherlock started nuzzling the crook of her neck. 'Hope we didn't disturb you.'

'No, no,' John protested, 'I was just… making this toast, and…'

'I'm afraid I haven't really mentioned you to John,' added Sherlock as he moved his mouth upwards to nibble Debbie's earlobe.

'I'm, um… not exactly a single girl,' Debbie admitted to John in over the top conspiratorial tones. 'You won't mention any of this, will you, John?'

'No, of course, of course.' John inspected his toast once more.

'He's seen worse,' Sherlock said.

'With you?' Debbie pushed a hand up through his hair. 'I don't doubt it, babe.' She planted a light kiss on his chin. 'I need to take a shower. I'm all sticky.' She caught John's eye and gave him a quick wink before he was able to find his toast terribly interesting once again.

Sherlock still didn't release Debbie. 'Think you need somebody to scrub your back?' he mumbled into her neck.

'Oh,' sighed Debbie, regretfully, 'I don't have long before he expects me home, so I've really got to go soon. I know what you're like – we'd still be in the shower at midnight if you were there with me. Next time, yeah?'

'Can't wait.' He took his arm from around her, but pulled her in for a kiss before she went – it was a quick, fond, goodbye kiss, but she responded by opening her mouth to the kiss, to which _he_ responded by very visibly sliding his tongue between her parted lips.

John took a moment to scrutinise his toast once more and weigh up whether or not it could do with a bit of marmalade on it as well.

Debbie pulled away from the kiss. 'I've _got _to hurry.

Sherlock released her, keeping a hold of her hand until their arms could no longer reach as she crossed the room. 'Missing you already.'

She winked again, and left the living room to hurry upstairs to the bathroom. Whatever switch it was that had been making Sherlock act like a horny teenager was turned off again the instant that the door closed behind her. He sighed, swilled and spat another mouthful of Coke, and then sat down to drink the rest of the bottle. Once the sound of the shower running upstairs could be heard, he set the bottle down and met eyes levelly with John.

'What?'

John shook his head. 'Nothing. Nothing. It's none of my business, I'm sure. It's just… I didn't think that you were interested in that sort of thing – particularly with somebody you don't even seem to like.'

'Well, it's not as if I'm having sex with her for fun, John. It's for a case.'

John blinked. 'A case.'

'I thought that was obvious. I'd hit a bit of a dead end. It was the only way forwards that I could see.'

'You're having a love affair,' clarified John in tones of disbelief, 'to get yourself further ahead in a case.'

'Problem?'

'You haven't considered the ethics of this at all?'

'Oh, this is hardly the most morally questionable reasoning for embarking upon an act of physical coupling – look at Deborah, she's a serial adulteress. I'm not exactly abusing the trust of a blushing virgin, am I?'

'Oh, she's married. Yes, when you put it like that, that makes what you're doing perfectly reasonable.'

'It's just a function. People use sex as a tool all the time,' replied Sherlock. 'Considering that I'm doing it to catch a murderer before they kill again, I think it's probably justified in this case.'

John paused, setting down his half eaten toast. 'This is still the Muswell Hill case, isn't it?' His mind's eye flashed back to the state of the young man's body that had been found there. Somebody had taken a Kitchen Devil to him and hadn't stopped until long after he'd been dead. Suddenly, John found he'd lost his appetite.

Sherlock nodded. 'It took me a while, but I found out where he'd been the night before he'd been killed – with Deborah Wall. They'd met online. They were having an affair – very discreet. Well… she is rather seasoned at that sort of duplicity. She's been sleeping with other men for decades, I'd say. And here's the thing – when I traced back the Walls' whereabouts over the years I found that they were living in Bristol between 1998 and 2004. And, six months before they moved to London, the body of one Jason Blake was discovered just outside Bristol, also stabbed repeatedly with a kitchen knife, also buried in a shallow grave. Both Blake and Deborah attended the same gym for the 10 months before Blake was murdered.'

'You suspect they were having an affair, too.'

'I have no proof, of course, but yes.'

'The husband…?'

Sherlock shook his head. 'He's left handed. Killer used the right hand. And it can't have been Deborah who killed them – she's too short, given the angles that the knife went in at.'

'Hired hit man, then?'

Sherlock gave John a '_don't you think I'd have considered that already?_' glare. 'Too messy. Too frenzied. These weren't professional jobs. No, there's something else. Something I'm missing. Something I can't see as an outside observer.'

'So, naturally you decided to put yourself in the position of at least two men that we know of who were hacked to death.'

'I'm just taking a step closer,' Sherlock explained, walking over to the sink. 'Getting closer to the answer…'

'Getting closer to the pointy end of a knife,' added John. 'Sherlock, please, please be careful.'

Sherlock rinsed out the Coke bottle, then rinsed out his mouth once more. 'Don't worry. I've got condoms.' He opened the drawer under the sink and showed John the packet. 'See?'

'That's not what I…' John frowned. 'Why are you keeping condoms in the kitchen?'

'Hmm?' asked Sherlock, innocently, heading back towards his room.

'Why are you keeping condoms in the kitchen?' repeated John. He looked down at the kitchen table. Sherlock had moved his latest experiment off it a few days ago, much to John's relief. Not only that, but it had been wiped clean recently, and not by John. And had it always wobbled like that…?

John groaned. 'Oh, God. The table.'

'The table is perfectly sanitary,' called Sherlock, over his shoulder. 'I cleaned it myself.'

'Oh, God.'

'I used Dettol wipes!'

'Oh, God.'

'Might want to run a mop over the kitchen floor at some point, though.'

'Oh, God.'

-x-

John was woken by the sound of the door to the flat slamming and Sherlock trudging upstairs. So, he'd finally cracked that Tooting cat burglar case. He still needed to find a better name for his blog entry on it than 'The Case of the Tooting Lootings'. Maybe something would spring to mind when Sherlock told him how he'd solved it. He wondered idly as he listened to the sound of the bath being run what time it was. The sun had risen, but his alarm hadn't gone off yet. He looked blearily at his alarm clock. Was… was that ten past seven…? His eyes focused on the hands. Shit! No! Ten past eight! He hadn't set his alarm. Idiot. Idiot!

He leapt out of bed and hurried across the landing to the bathroom. The bath was still being run. He knocked on the door.

'Sherlock, are you decent?'

'Am I ever?'

'No, I mean are you OK if I just nip in here for a few minutes? I'm late for work.'

'Go ahead, John. Door's unlocked.'

'Thanks.'

John opened the door. Sherlock was already in the bath as it was being run. His clothes were scattered about the bathroom. Sherlock had nothing on but the cheerful smile of somebody who had just been able to validate his own extreme cleverness and, bizarrely, a carton of beef chow mein resting on his tucked-up knees.

'Morning. Pork balls?' Sherlock blithely proffered a polystyrene cup that had been resting on the edge of the bath.

'What on Earth.'

'My needs for a bath and something to eat were of equal urgency,' Sherlock told him. He shovelled another forkful of noodles into his mouth and continued to talk through the food. 'I felt that this was an elegant solution. Aren't you going to be late for work?'

'If I'm not out of the door in 20 minutes, yes, I will be. And I still need a shower.'

'That might not be the best idea,' replied Sherlock , somehow managing to keep talking despite yet another forkful going into his mouth. 'My breakfast could get soaked, for a start.'

'Or, you could get out of the bath for three minutes and let me…' John trailed off at Sherlock's expression. That was never going to happen. 'Fine, I'll just strip-wash.' He turned to the bathroom sink behind him. It was full of cold water, a ripped shirt and an awful lot of blood.

'Don't worry,' said Sherlock. 'It's not mine. Well… the blood isn't. The shirt is. Was. Ruined now, I expect.'

'And the kitchen sink's full of dishes,' recalled John. 'Why don't I just go and stick my head in the washing machine?'

'Oh, don't be so melodramatic.' Sherlock switched off the taps and turned himself sideways on, his legs still folded up with his knees up to his chin. He gestured to the rest of the tub. 'Plenty of room.'

John stared at the bath. There really was enough room for him to wash, albeit slightly hunched up. He briefly wondered how somebody who usually took up quite so much space was able, when he wanted, to fit inside a third of a bathtub, then remembered that he now only had only 19 minutes left to get out in the hope of ever catching his bus and that he still smelled pretty ripe, and so stripped off as briskly as he could. He reminded himself as he stepped in that his naked body was something Sherlock had seen before – four times now, in fact… that he knew of. Sherlock barely looked across at him, and certainly wasn't put off his breakfast by the sight. And, John was surprised, he didn't feel as embarrassed as he thought he would. They were just… bodies. They both saw bodies all the time, after all. He didn't even feel that self conscious about the scar on his shoulder, since Sherlock's own body was peppered with scars, each a memento of a brilliant anecdote. He'd been there in person for the birth of a couple of them. A dog bite here, a fencing scar there, a burn that everybody at the Yard said was from a cigarette but Sherlock insisted was from a Russian Mafia boss with a red hot poker… and there was a large, round scar near the top of Sherlock's right thigh.

'So, that's where you were harpooned.'

'It was only a little harpoon.'

'How the Hell did you manage to get a harpoon in your leg, Sherlock?'

'Pirates.'

John narrowed his eyes. '_Pirates_. On the high seas, were you?'

'Southend.' Sherlock stabbed a pork ball onto the end of his fork with a disturbing level of enthusiasm.

'Do you have to do that?' muttered John.

Sherlock just waved the food in John's face. 'You'll save more time if you eat here with me instead of making toast.'

John begrudgingly picked a pork ball out of the cup. 'Breakfast in Bath,' he sighed.

Sherlock beamed. 'It's my latest invention. I think it might catch on.'

_What has my life become?_ John asked himself, albeit only internally. All that he actually said aloud was 'Pass the soap. And the Sweet & Sour sauce.'

THE END


End file.
